Memoirs of an English Busboy
by comptine
Summary: If Arthur was ever going to write a personal memoir, this is exactly where he would start. With a Frenchman groping him, suffocating between a pair of large Ukrainian breasts and a failing band on the side. FrUK
1. Chapter 1

Originally I was going to write a one-shot and get on with life. And then the world made itself on it's own and I have an entire AU-verse on my hands. So… expect more stories after this one~

* * *

**Chapter 1**

If Arthur was ever going to write a personal memoir, this is exactly where he would start. With a Frenchman groping him, suffocating between a pair of large Ukrainian breasts and a failing band on the side.

As much as it might sound like the luckiest day of Arthur's life, in all reality, it was most likely the worst. The only reason he was in this situation because of a misjudging of just how feral his guitar was, just how wild Gilbert's vocals were and just how fragile the best speakers Harrods's had in stock. Looking back, perhaps they should've bought the speakers instead of testing them in the middle of the store.

Maybe that was why he found himself working in _Risqué_, London's newest and best French restaurant, with above-average pay and a vague hope that maybe if he worked for the next five years of his sorry life working he might have a vague hope of paying of an eighth of the speakers.

Sighing, Arthur bumped his head against the outside wall of the restaurant. Beside him, Gilbert was fiddling with his iPod, the large headphones around his neck quiet for once as he listened to the Brit complain.

"You're so lucky your parents bought you out of this one Gil…"

"It's your fault Artie, you were the one who said you could handle sound control."

"I follow Eddie's directions to a fucking T and now I'm sitting here in a waiter's uniform serving British people French food and pretending to be polite."

"I'm not gonna beat up Eddie over this one. Ivan would kill me."

"Mathias is the lucky one… he wasn't even there."

"Lucky? He was recovering from a shiner he got from getting into a fight with Bernie."

"Shit, those two don't get along…"

"This coming from you? When was the last time you said something polite to Al?"

Arthur got to his feet, fixing the cuffs of his white shirt and then adjusting the apron around his waist. "My break's over." He said, brushing his pants free of dust and grim from the old London alley. Gilbert nodded, straightening from his relaxed position on the wall, shaking his military jacket of fog and rain. "Pick me up at six okay? Still don't have my car back."

Bumping fists with Arthur and then pulling on his headphones, Gilbert gave a lazy salute, starting down the alley. After a deep breath to prepare himself, Arthur slipped back into the restaurant. It was bustling with activity, the kitchen working like a hive, getting instruction from the sous-chef (the head chef was still in Paris) as they made plate after plate of the French food.

Toris, the headwaiter, was currently taking orders, looking even more stressed than usual as he tried to take down the complicated requests. Arthur was glad he was doing that job, the first time the Englishman had attempted to take someone's order he had almost ended up punching the customer. Suffice to say, the Lithuanian had stepped in before things got violent and now Arthur was only a busboy.

As Arthur tried to slip by the kitchen without being noticed, an angry voice called at him almost at once. "Kirkland! You English bastard," Sighing, Arthur straightened and was met with a very angry Chinese sous-chef shaking a ladle at him, long hair pulled back and amber eyes sparking dangerously, "I said your break was five minutes! Not ten! If you want this job you better go out and help Katya right now!"

Before Arthur could respond, a rather excited boy pitched in from the dish pit, grinning widely. "Push-up bras were invented in Korea!" He was quickly silenced as he narrowly avoided getting clocked by a ladle. "Eeeh, bro, watch out!"

Wang Yao, sous-chef of the restaurant seemed to have developed a grudge against Arthur the moment he applied for a job. Something about his eyebrows being too bushy or something, Arthur had learned within the first hour of working to just ignore the man and focus on his work. His cousin was the opposite and seemed to be friends with everyone who came within shouting distance. Arthur was not sure which one was more annoying.

"Arthur!" He turned around and barely avoided being knocked over by a small blond woman. She was almost in tears as she loaded food onto her tray, her expansive chest somehow managing to stay out of the way. "_л__аятися_" She whispered when she realized that her hands were full and a single plate lie abandoned on the counter. Her lower lip trembled.

Not keen on seeing Katya breakdown, Arthur hurried over and picked up the plate. "What table?" He said, focusing to keep his sight up -the one time his eyes had wandered he hand learnt just how good Yao's aim with his ladle was.

Her face broke into a grateful smile and Arthur couldn't help but blush. "Five, then clean table three, they had twins there. There's pâté everywhere." Katya's hourglass form kept the eyes of most of _Risqué'_s cliental as she winded through the tightly knit tables. Sighing, Arthur quickly followed after her, muttering half formed apologies to the outraged people who had been waiting an entire hour for the _Moules à la crème Normade_ and _Matelote_ before hurrying away, wiping goose fat off the booth, growling quietly.

"Be sure to get all of it." A voice reminded him cheerfully. He looked up to see a tall brunette grinning down at him, a single flower in her shiny hair, holding it out of her vibrant green eyes. Elizaveta, hostess of _Risqué_ and the owner's wife, was smiling at him, ruffling his hair fondly. "Bonnefoy's flight came in today, he should be here soon and we want everything to look as nice as it can."

Arthur pulled back, examining the booth before looking at the hostess. "So he's actually French?"

"As French as they come."

"Great." Arthur sighed and the Hungarian laughed quietly, covering he mouth with her hand, ring flashing in the bright light for a moment, "Just what I wanted, a Frenchman ordering me around."

The woman raised an eyebrow as they both headed to the front of the restaurant. The rush of people had slowed down slightly and a quiet buzz filled the air. "What were you expecting when you because a waiter at a place called _Risqué_? Brazilians?"

Rolling his eyes as Elizaveta punched his shoulder, Arthur wandered to the back, slipping into the kitchen, trying to look busy so as not to get in trouble with Yao though that only lasted for a few minutes once he ended up tripping someone. Forced to hide behind the bar with the cross-dressing bartender, Arthur spent a few good minutes bothering Toris with Feliks until Katya suddenly poked her head around the corner from the back, indicating that Arthur should follow.

Taking a quick drink of bourbon and thanking the Pole, the English snuck into the back. "What is it?" He asked, lowering his voice automatically when he saw that the entire kitchen staff had stopped moving, all standing at attention while Yao walked down the line, examining each one, adjusting their uniforms.

Toris followed in behind Arthur, fiddling nervously with his jacket. "Mr. Bonnefoy has arrived." He informed quietly. Katya gasped, quickly adjusting her headband, looking extremely nervous.

Arthur merely shook his head. "I really don't see what the big deal is." he said, walking out and looking from behind the door hiding the back. No one who looked vaguely French seemed to be there. Turning back to Toris, he folded his arms over his chest, "Really, he's just a stupid Frenchman. I bet he's not even from France! He's probably one of those Franco-Swiss hybrids which means he'll be thrifty and snooty!"

His fake enthusiasm suddenly broke as hands crawled around his front, hugging his hips. "And just who is this charming young man?" a voice purred into his ear, "I rather like him."

Turning around, Arthur almost jumped a foot in the air. A tall blond grinned down at him, blue eyes sparkling. Behind him, Arthur heard the staff take in a collective breath and suddenly the urge to punch the man died down. This was Francis Bonnefoy. The best French cook (according to Toris and Elizaveta) in the entire world.

"I-I'm Arthur Kirkland." As he said this, Francis took a step towards him, smiling widely. Automatically backing up, Arthur turned slightly just as Katya was taking a step forward. His first thought was something along the lines of demanding five dollars from Alfred because they were real. The second was blurred as hands suddenly wrapped around him, hugging him against a fit body.

"_Oui…_ I definitely like him~"

* * *

**Author's note**

This was a second request fill on the WtFcomm, it was evokers and the request was "AU. arthur gets a christmas job as a waiter in a new fancy french restaurant in london & francis is the head chef. hilarity & gay romantic hijinks ensue."

Suffice to say, I was happy~


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

_Life is nothing without a little Risqué__._

This was the official tagline of _Risqué._ Now, most people find it very charming and yet with an edge to it, but it is not the byword that really attracts the clientele _Risqué _has come to pride itself in. No, surprisingly enough it is not the cosy yet chic atmosphere, nor the charmingly caring hostess, adorably flustered headwaiter or the poshly natty owner, and to top that all off it wasn't even the five-star, internationally recognized, multiple-award winning food.

It all came down to one very important, very lovely and very talented Frenchman. Now, for a quick recap of just what makes Francis Bonnefoy one of the best at what he does, we must go back and see what blood Francis comes from. Both his parents are world-renown chefs; one being French, owning a large restaurant in Paris (known as _Le Jules Verne,_ one might say it's rather well-known). The other being Italian, owning a small restaurant in Rome (known as _Tramonto_, one might say it's rather utterly-unknown)

Seemingly born with the genes that would guarantee a gifted chef, Francis' gourmet path did not end there. By the age of ten he had already perfected his father's pasta recipe, completely reworked his mother's speciality dish and managed bake a soufflé while a jackhammer was digging right outside his Parisian flat.

After that, Francis was enrolled in _L'Art Culinaire_ in which he spent eight years at the top of his class, graduating as the most decorated of any student to pass through it's doors. Not to mention this is the period where Francis also earned the title of "_Paris' Best Lover_" but that's not something he brags about, rather saving it for those intimate moments.

Between the sex and cooking, one would assume that Francis had almost time for nothing else. This is true, which is why once he turned eighteen, he disappeared into the world, popping up in the kitchens of Louisiana, the páos of Shanghai and the barbies of Australia. Some say he was trying to master every kind of cuisine. Others say he just got lost.

Finally his journey stopped in Vienna wherein he met a pianist trying to start a restaurant but missing one key thing. A chef. One might call it destiny, others may call it stupidity while the wisest call it a risk. This risk obviously paid off because within two months Roderich and Francis were standing outside _Risqué_, a cue of Londoners already forming.

However, none of these things mattered to one very temperamental, very angry and very flustered Englishman. There is nothing that makes Arthur Kirkland more special than anyone save for one fact. He is the best guitarist in all of England (maybe the world) and he knew it. But you don't care about Arthur's history (not at the moment anyway) because the aftermath of the Groping Incident is much more interesting.

Namely the aftermath wherein Arthur was elbowing the talented French chef in the side.

All that could be heard was the moan of "_Dieu_" and the murmur of the restaurants patrons. No one spoke. No one moved. Even Yao, who always had something to say if it involved the Brit, was silent. Katya was holding her arms over her chest looking ready to break down completely.

"What's going on back here?" The swinging doors creaked open and Roderich Edelstein appeared, Elizaveta not far behind. His deep purple eyes trailed over Arthur's burning yet angered face, Katya's arms pulled tight against her chest and Francis who was favouring his left side.

Part of Arthur wanted to say that it was all one big misunderstanding (which was the truth) and another part of him wanted to say that it was all on purpose (also, coincidentally, the truth) while a quieter, much more sensible part of him was making a list of possible jobs he could get once he was fired from _Risqué_. This part wondered vaguely if working for only three days entitled him to a letter of recommendation even though he had just hit the head chef in the ribs.

Just as he was about to claim sexual harassment, Francis finally spoke. "It was my fault," he said, grinning at the Austrian, "I was merely playing around and frightened dear Arthur. 'e hit me and, well, 'ere we are." He gestured around the silent kitchen.

Yao's voice perked up next, effectively waking the rest of the staff from their stupor. "It's great that Bonnefoy's back, but we've still got people to feed! Everyone back to work or you're doing dish duty with Yong Soo." This threat had the kitchen back up and running within thirty seconds.

"You 'ave not let the kitchen get lazy," Francis observed, "I must say I am not surprised. You are always ze best Yao."

The amber eyes sparkled slightly at the compliment and the man bowed his head. "I only wish I could say the same thing about the serving staff.." He said, shooting a pointed look at Arthur before turning on his heel and taking control of the kitchen.

Arthur could only glare, knowing that a sharp response would only get him in more trouble.

Still smiling, Francis looked between Arthur and Katya, the blue eyes favouring the latter. "I 'ave already met Toris." He said, looking at the Lithuanian, who nodded his head slightly and muttered '_good to have you back Mr. Bonnefoy_' before hurrying out to the front, "But I have yet to be introduced to you two. Francis Bonnefoy, Head Chef of _Risqué_." He held out a long and elegant hand, the restaurant's name rolling off his tongue.

The Ukrainian took the hand first, peeping and flushing as Francis grazed his lips over her knuckles. "K-Katya Bra-Braginski," she managed, "I have been working here two weeks. I-I am trying to pay f-for my brother and s-sister's schooling." She bowed her head, biting her lip obviously regretting revealing so much.

"A noble cause." Francis said kindly, taking her hand and cradling it between his. "Roderich says he is pleased with your work. And with ze number of tips you bring in." he added, winking.

Blushing, but looking much more relaxed, Katya nodded before walking away, her head just a little higher. This left Roderich, Francis, Arthur and Elizaveta; the hostess quickly excused herself, slipping back out front. The Austrian continued to watch silently, arms folded over his chest.

Deciding that it was time to be a man, the Englishman held out a hand. "Arthur Kirkland." He said, finally meeting Francis' eye. To his great relief, the chef took the hand, almost gratefully, "I'm sorry about before, you did startle me quite a bit."

This was apparently enough for Roderich because he gave a curt nod of approval before disappearing behind the swinging doors. Arthur's shoulders visibly relaxed and even Francis looked a little less tense.

"_Enchanté,_" he said, thankfully not kissing the back of Arthur's hand, "It is a pleasure to meet you Mr. Kirkland."

Releasing the Frenchman's hand, Arthur shook his head. "Don't… I'm just Arthur." He said quietly, unable to bring himself to complete the cliché by adding something about his father being Mr. Kirkland.

The Frenchman smiled. Now, Arthur would come to be able to tell the difference between these grins, whether it be the 'I'm-going-to-kill-you' smile or the ever popular 'You-should-take-your-clothes-off-right-now' smirk, but at that moment, he was only novice in reading Francis and while his current smile was anything but innocent, Arthur couldn't tell.

"Well, Arthur," He said, taking a step towards the Englishman and cupping his cheek for only a moment, before letting his arm drop, "I will enjoy having you work _under_ me."

With that, Francis moved into the kitchen, leaving a flustered Arthur wondering bitterly why his cheeks were a bright red.

-

It was raining. Not that this is a surprising fact to anyone -it _was_ England after all- but Francis still seemed utterly putout by the foggy weather. Thus, _Risqué_ found itself relatively empty, as though customers could sense the depressed air and didn't want it seeping into their normally bright and loving meals.

This didn't bother Arthur in the slightest. One might find it a little odd to hang out at one's workplace when one wasn't working, but Arthur liked it because he got discounts and Feliks often slipped him free drinks when Toris wasn't looking. Which is why, on this particularly stormy day, he was sitting at a booth near the swinging doors leading to the back, two familiar faces sitting across from him.

"What about _Pathetic_?" Gilbert suggested, idly sucking the maraschino cherry off its stem before flicking the bright red stalk into the small pile forming near his hand. Beside Gilbert, Mathias was nursing his rum and coke, a patch covering his bruised eye as he watched the other two bicker.

"Gilbert," Arthur took a long drink from his tea, fixing the Prussian with a somewhat exasperated look, "Do a favour for me."

"Okay."

"Pretend we're opening in London. You know the opening you want to shout? Say that out loud with _Pathetic_ in there."

"Hello Londooooooooooooon!" Gilbert said loudly, half-standing out of his seat, getting an offended look for Toris and Elizaveta. He gripped an invisible microphone stand, "We are _Pathe_-" a pause, "Well played Kirkland, well played."

Mathias finally spoke, grinning a little. "What about _Jagged_?"

"No…" Arthur sighed, "Then everyone would just think we're bent."

"Well, I don't know about you two but my awesomeness only applies to chicks."

The Dane and the Brit exchanged a glance. "This coming from the guy that spends an hour everyday getting ready?"

"Say what you want. It takes time to look this good."

"And only a few seconds to ruin." Reaching over, Mathias pulled Gilbert into a headlock, rubbing his knuckle all over the pale hair.

"_Fick dich_!" the Prussian squawked, "_Du dämliche Schlampe_!" Finally he was released by a laughing Mathias, attempting to settle his hair which now resembled a bleached hedgehog, "_Schwuchtel_…" he muttered, glaring. While neither spoke a word of German, Mathias and Arthur had learned that he usually wasn't saying the kindest of thing if he was using his mother tongue.

"Now what is all ze racket out here?" Arthur stopped laughing as arms wrapped around his shoulders and a chin found the top of his head the perfect place to rest. "You are scaring away customers."

Arthur tried to wrestle out of the French chef's grip but failed and was forced to sit, cheeks a light pink, while Gilbert and Mathias stared, both grinning. "We're just trying to think of a name for our band." He explained, trying to keep his voice steady. Francis had been making passes at him since arriving, but Arthur had grown used to them - that and he wasn't the only one subject to the Frenchman's too-grabby hands - and it was practically commonplace to be hit on by Francis.

"Oh, sounds fun!" Francis said and Arthur could feel the warm breath ruffling his hair, "Are you playing somewhere?"

Mathias finished his drink, rolling the empty glass between his hands. "We wish…" He said bitterly, "But no one will let us play. They all say we're too young!"

"Just wait until we're famous!" Gilbert said, managing to calm his hair slightly, "They'll be begging us to play, just you wait!"

What Arthur had come to expect with Francis was the unexpected. He didn't know whether it was the resentment in the Dane's voice or the pure earnestness in the Prussian's, but something made the chef say, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world; "Well, why don't you open 'ere? At _Risqué_?"

This made even Arthur look up at Francis. "You're joking, right?" He asked weakly.

"_Non_." The arms pulled back, "I think it is a good idea. And I am sure Roderich would not mind, as long as things stayed under control."

"_Holy shit_." Gilbert was on his feet, hands planted firmly on the table, "Are you for serious?"

Francis folded his arms over his chest, raising an eyebrow. "Do I look serious to you? I am offering a chance for you to play, do you accept or not?"

"Yes!" Arthur also stood up, turning around in his seat and staring a Francis. "We accept!"

"Then I will start making arrangements at once. 'ow does next week sound-" Now, Arthur was never really one for showing his affection, but this one break in his iciness could perhaps be blamed by the heat of the moment and the small shot of vodka in his tea.

Arthur hugged Francis. And then promptly let go. "Thank you." He muttered, giving a small smile before sitting back down and staring at the table. Almost hearing the grin in Francis' voice as the Frenchman made a quiet comment about his affections being returned before sauntering away.

Looking up only once the swinging doors at stopped whining, he caught the looks Mathias and Gilbert were giving him. "What?!" He demanded, trying to appear as though he had not just hugged someone he'd known for less than two weeks.

"And you're scared of _us_ being called bent?"

"Oh shut up."

* * *

**Author's Note**

Mathias = Denmark

I'm currently trying to learn some basic German and so Julia (My comic artist for the Avatar next-gen comic "Insult of a False Kindness"/plug) decided to teach me some proper slang/offensive terms.

_Fick dich_! - Fuck off!

_Du dämliche Schlampe_! - You retarded shit!

_Schwuchtel_ - Fag

Páos - Chinese for 'kitchen' (or so I hope…)

_Le Jules Verne_ is the restaurant on in the Eiffel Tower (one of them at least) and _Tramonto_ is the little restaurant from the Two Weeks of Sunshine 'verse. And don't you just love the stereotyping with the 'barbies' thing? I always wonder if Aussies actually say that…

The name _Pathetic_ actually is a reference to the lesser known "Pathetic Trio/Fail Older Brothers Trio" of Hetalia which is made up of Denmark, England and Prussia. This trio needs moar luffs.

AND MY GOD. TOTALLY FORGOT TO MENTION. The restaurant _Risqué_ and it's tagline bother belong to _Luciole-leSolange _and I am a terrible friend for not mentioning this before. Hopefully she'll find forgiveness somewhere in her heart~ If not, well... ;A;


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Now, for a little of that backstory that was stowed away in favour of watching Arthur elbow Francis in the ribs. Arthur Kirkland was born and raised on a steady diet of The Beatles, Stones and Clash and was rocking The Invasion long before it was considered "in" again (he wasn't very popular in his younger days when "I Love You" a la Barney was far more well-known than "Anarchy in the UK". It didn't take long for him to pick up his dad's old Stratocaster and start teaching himself how to play. Lessons were hard to come by but Arthur seemed to be somewhat of a natural.

It also didn't take long for him to grow bored of the Invasion. Soon he was listening to whatever he could get his hands on from Bob Dylan to Europe to Red Army Gregorian Chants. While not admittedly a fan of the church incant, it didn't matter because everything was absorbed into his brain. Instead of excelling and getting the grades that would guarantee him a position in the House of Lords, Arthur was in his basement, listening to music, his ever increasing repertoire coming out in the quiet riffs he played.

Having the World's Greatest Guitarist living in a small town (Pagham, West Sussex) meant that he didn't go unnoticed. Not that Arthur was signed by a record company and made millions before he could legally drink -he drank anyway, just discreetly. No, he was picked up by someone much more… awesome. Gilbert Beilschmidt, in a moment of divine intervention, opened his ears and listened to something other than the sound of his own voice talking just as Arthur was testing out a new solo based on _Tank! _by the Seatbelts.

Since then, the duo has been somewhat inseparable. Inseparable as in those moments where they were apart, the Shaolin monks would stop their training and look up into the sky, animals of the Serengeti would pause in their ancient migration to stand restlessly and even Canadian political parties would stop bickering among themselves all long enough to recognize that something was wrong in the world.

In an effort to save migration patterns and the political integrity of Canada, Gilbert and Arthur tried to stay together as often as possible. But they had creative issues as all bands do. While Gilbert had his roots engrained deep within German/Swedish Symphonic-Metal, Arthur wanted to try everything, leaning towards a more rock-ish/Blind Melon feel.

This is where Mathias Køhler fit in perfectly. Stern, yet exuberant, he brought a more levelheaded and unbiased voice to the band and soon practices were scheduled, money was saved, venues were sought after, dreams were formed and an Estonian somehow managed to find his way as Roadie/Band Manager.

Even as they entered SPQR Academy (known as the "srs bsns" school among the youth of London) the three could often be found under a stairs case, Arthur strumming on his guitar, Mathias tapping his sticks against any surface that created a noise and Gilbert mumbling quietly, eyes shut in concentration.

While his history was not near as exciting, braggable or windswept as Francis', Arthur Kirkland has what someone might call a history. But, as stated before, Arthur would not start his memoirs at his birth at Chichester Nuffield Hospital or the first day he met Gilbert or the first time he picked up a guitar. He would start with Francis Bonnefoy's hugging him while he became very well acquainted with Katya's chest because that is the root of all Arthur's problems and dreams.

_Two hours before the show_

_Risque_ let out its last customer, closing its doors for the next hour and a in half, after which they would open again. Instead of letting in the fine dining crowd it was used to and it would be finding itself filled to the brim with Londoners, students from the Academy and punk-rockers trying to a find a new indie band they could cling to in a vague hope that if the band would go big, they could brag about seeing their first show.

Gilbert was meanwhile trying to fit his small 1950 restored, bright crimson, Beetle through the alley beside the restaurant, unable to see out the back window due to the drums blocking his view. Arthur and Mathias were trying to direct him but the Prussian refused to hear anything. For fifteen minutes his vocabulary consisted of nothing but "_Scheiß Auto! Verdammt. Halt die Fresse Arthur und du auch, Matthias. Verfickter Däne und scheißt britische Idioten. Verpisst euch- Scheiße_!"

Eventually the drums made it inside swiftly followed by Arthur's amp and a microphone. By this time Eduard had arrived, adjusting his glasses as he scanned down his checklist. "Is Gilbert going to set up the microphones? And please tell me he remembered his guitar." He asked, eyes scanning the small venue slightly disappointed.

Sitting down on the small stool behind his drum, Matthias tested them. "He's over hitting on that old brunette lady. I think the foreplay is calming him down." He gestured with a stick while his other hand adjusted a cymbal. Arthur glanced over his shoulder for a moment, watching Gilbert lean against the bar, chatting to a very unimpressed-looking Elizaveta, "And is anyone gonna be able to see us? We're stuck behind all these tables."

As if summoned, Toris appeared, Feliks clinging to his arm. "We'll move the tables for you." He said, but no one really registered what he was saying as all attention was focused on the black lipstick, bright plaid miniskirt, pigtails with pink streaks and the numerous chains hanging around Feliks' neck (it was as if he was trying to bluff having a chest when really he was just hiding his lack of one.)

"Like, totally!" The Pole flounced over and started tugging the tables to the side, clearing a space. Meanwhile, Arthur had grabbed the Lithuanian's arm, pulling him away and talking in quiet and quick voices.

"I thought you said he wasn't going to dress up!"

"I thought so too. B-but he insisted."

"Can't you say no?"

"…no…"

"Well, as long as he does his job, the crowd should be drunk enough not to notice that a man dressed up as a fucking Britney Spears music video is bartending."

_One hour before the show._

Gilbert had finally returned to the stage (his right cheek was stinging from a serious blow from the hostess) and was behind his microphone, tapping and talking into it while exchanging looks with Eduard who was in a corner, a small board covered in dials and sliders, glasses reflecting his laptop's screen. Sitting on top of a chair, beating his sticks against the back of Toris' head while the headwaiter was trying to convince Feliks to not show so much skin, was Matthias.

Curled in a corner, fingers sliding along the thin wires on the neck of his guitar (Elizabeth), picking absentmindedly, Arthur stared out into space, his mind obviously not with him at that moment in time. Which is why Francis was able to sneak up on him without too much trouble. "You look nice." He said, bending over, grinning at the Brit. Arthur looked up in time to see the blue eyes roam over his tight, fire engine red pants.

"Thanks." Arthur said, immediately bringing his splayed legs together, knobby knees knocking together, "You're not bad yourself."

Straightening, Francis laughed airily, flipping his long hair over his shoulder. "I do not wear a chef's uniform all the time." He said, tugging at the cuff of his black jacket, "Want to play me something?"

By now Arthur had a mild comprehension in the realm of reading Francis - which was quite the ordeal involving a lot of quiet night spent behind the bar, watching him with Elizaveta as she whispered things in his ears, educating him. Standing casually, hands shoved into tailored pants but that smile… no matter how Arthur stared at it, he couldn't get anything from it. "You have to wait for the show."

"Aww, no private shows for ze boss?" Francis pouted.

Arthur got to his feet, sliding the guitar around his back so that his hands were free. "I doubt Roderich wants to hear my guitar." Starting to walk towards Gilbert and Matthias who were both on stage, roughhousing (he intended to pull them apparent before they managed to break something) the Brit stopped as there was a sudden pressure at his back.

Looking round, he caught the Frenchman's fingers trace up the neck of his guitar, plucking on a string. "She is beautiful," He whispered into Arthur's ear, grinning. This expression Arthur could read and it made him swallow hard, "I cannot wait to see how you use her."

In the stunned moment that follows, Matthias managed to crack a chair leg and Gilbert leaves a long black streak on the hardwood floor with the heel of his boot.

"Break a leg _Sourcils_~"

_Five minutes before the show._

"Arthur. C'mon man, you can't bail out now!"

"I think he's actually died."

"I dunno, he's breathin' and shit…"

"Maybe we weren't yelling loud enough. Shit, you don't think he's gone deaf have you?"

"I'll check. ARTHUR KIRKLAND, CAN YOU HEAR ME? IT'S GILBERT. YOUR AWESOME BEST FRIEND." Gilbert shook Arthur violently but still no response.

For the last fifty-five minutes, the Brit hadn't moved, staring ahead, cheeks red. Currently the Dane and Prussian were trying to snap him out of it as they had an opening gig to play. _Risqué_ was filled with people. Which in itself was unexpected and even Gilbert, who never got butterflies, was feeling nervous. The only one calm and collected (besides the living-dead Brit) was Eduard.

The Estonian appeared, squeezing between the crowds, a glass of water in his trembling hand. Shoving the two older boys away, he approached Arthur shaking his head. "Idiots." He muttered, dipping his finger into the water before shoving it into Arthur's ear.

The yelp made the crowd look around and gave them time to size up the night's entertainment. An albino with a too-confident smile who looked as though he was about to have a paroxysm, a tall Dane who was currently fixing his nose piercing, eyes crossed and tongue stuck out in determination, a small bespectacled Estonian and a raging Englishman clutching his ear.

Definitely a winning combination.

"Show's about to start." Eduard informed genially, "Just a few more minutes." Passing the glass to Gilbert, the small boy walked away, sliding behind his computer and soundboard, looking immensely pleased with himself.

Staring into the glass, Gilbert frowned. "You just got wet-willy'd by Eduard."

Arthur glared. "Oh really? I hadn't fucking noticed!" He let his hands fall from his ear and stared at the other two. "Wow… I guess this is it."

"Our big show." Matthias said.

"The start of our career as rock stars." Gilbert added, nodding.

"Gil… Matthias… I just want you to know, it's been a great run. So if we bomb tonight, we bomb."

"We bomb being the most awesome thing London's ever seen." Gilbert's pale hand hovered in the air in front of them. "For the band?"

Matthias put his hand in next. "The band."

"Please don't tell me that's our name… The Band." Arthur said, but still putting his hand in anyway.

"Oh don't worry." Gilbert said, slapping his other hand on top, grinning and looking a little less green, "I've got a plan."

_Thirty seconds before the show._

Funny how the name could be fixed with one single word.

"Hello Londooooooooooooon!" Gilbert's voice echoed, the mike whined with feedback and the small crowd turned to the stage, "We are _The Pathetics_!" there was a quiet murmur and a few people gave whistles. Arthur walked on stage, frowning slightly at the lights, trying to see past the glare. He caught sight of Matthew and Alfred, grinning a little as he fumbled with his amp chord, plugging it in.

As Arthur pulled his hand back, he noticed that he was shaking and that his feet were awkwardly shifting from side-to-side. Suddenly, he seemed to have forgotten everything he had ever played and all he could do was stare out at the blurred crowd, swallowing. He couldn't do this; he was going to mess up. Life as a hermit wouldn't be too bad, right? That was if Matthias and Gilbert would let him live.

"Arthur… dude, count us in." Gilbert hissed.

Wide green eyes flicked to the Prussian who was staring expectantly at him, his hands gripping his microphone stand tightly. Arthur's mouth open and he saw the flicker of a smile and blue eye wink at him from a corner.

_Five seconds_ _before the show_.

He gripped his guitar, set his feet and gave Gilbert a small grin. "A five, six, seven, eight…" The drums started, a low and fast beat and Gilbert's strums soon join as he turns back to the ground and Arthur can see that he isn't a scared little girl anymore.

Then it's his turn. He flows in easily alongside the other two but just as soon as his guitar hums along, it's playing it's own melody. Tension relaxed from his shoulders as he got into the rhythm, watching Gilbert move to the microphone and start singing into it.

"_Well, the room was pink and the sign were serious-_"

It all happened to fast and before Arthur knows the chorus from the bridge, their song is over. The three stand all shivering and panting slightly, looking at each other in the hush that follows. Someone claps and Arthur his gut seize. Were they that bad?

As God decided that he was done playing with The Pathetics, the throng of servers, kitchen staff, faux-punks, schoolmates, restaurateurs who came for dinner, instead getting a show and other random assortment of riffraff the odd venue seemed to have pulled in.

One setlist later, Arthur, Gilbert and Matthias were drenched in sweat but high of the exuberance of the crowd that had not died down once during the entire show. Thanking them and bowing, they walked out of the hard lights, sneaking into the backroom. They stared at each other before Gilbert started to laugh, pulling the other two into a loose hug.

"We fucking did it!" He half-screamed, "We did it! Did you see them? They thought we were amazing! Christ, that was awesome! And- and-" His voice trailed off into a lengthy and too fast German speech of made up of enthusiasm that made Arthur and Matthias laugh.

Grabbing a bottle of water and throwing it down his parched throat, Arthur let out a long sigh, rolling his neck. "Can you believe it? We just played our _first show_."

"Today, some little French restaurant," Matthias said, taking the bottle from Arthur and finishing it in one gulp, "Tomorrow, Madison Square Garden!"

Laughing the three tried to clean themselves off a bit before exiting. The crowd had settled a bit, food having appeared on tables and the lights more ambient. A small girl was talking to Eduard who seemed utterly flustered while Feliks was showing off his bartending skills to a group of Arthur's classmates.

While the Dane and Prussian walked towards their own families, Arthur stood for a moment, his eyes searching for Alfred and Matthew.

"You were_ magnifique_ _Sourcils_." Turning around, Arthur stared at Francis. The Frenchman had been stripped of his black jacket, revealing a deep scarlet shirt underneath. Arthur's eyes were immediately drawn to the pale skin revealed beneath the few undone buttons. "You look hot-"

Arthur stared at him.

"-Per'aps you want to go outside?" Francis finished.

"Oh." The Brit nodded and followed Francis out to a small balcony. The London street below rumbled with movement. Arthur clenched the railing tightly trying to appear calm and collected like a disinterested rockstar but the Frenchman's gaze on him was making him feel more like an inadequate, seventeen-year-old boy who had just played his first show.

Francis propped his chin on his hand, watching Arthur carefully. "You really love it. Don't you?" He questioned easily.

Leaning against the railing, deciding that his knees were going to support him much longer (why? He couldn't be that tired from the show), Arthur nodded. "It's just something I've always done."

"Ah, I understand. Cooking 'as always been ze same for me."

"Right." Arthur bit his lip, "So… you liked the show?"

"_Oui_. It was better than expected."

"Should that be a compliment?"

"I do not know. Do you think it is one, _Sourcils_?"

Was it just him or was the chef starting to gravitate towards him?

"Okay..." Arthur said, wondering why his words were coming out too hesitating and quiet. He also wondered why he was…. Wondering so much. Surly he would be more self-confident after playing an entire show.

A hand found it's way onto his shoulder. "_Sourcils_? Are you alright? You are still red, per'aps I can get you some water?" The warm fingers toyed at the edge of his throat, grazing the edge of the thin scar around his neck.

"Don't ask. It's a long story." Arthur said, but not pulling away. After all, the chef was just feeling… his pulse, obviously. To make sure he was still alive. "Rather... awkward, I mean it was-"

Warm lips pressed against his for only a moment. It would take about three days for the fact that Arthur had just had his first kiss to really register in his mind. Right now, high on the thrill of performance and the coolness of the night, Arthur barely noticed. Later, when he would lie in bed at night, fingers feeling his lips, he would remember the sweet and acid taste of too-much wine, the tentativeness he had never seen before with Francis and he would wonder if it had all been a drunken mistake.

"I was only feeling your neck _Sourcils_." Francis whispered, grinning at him, "Forgive me, you are too adorable to keep myself away from. I believe that you will continue to prove too much for me too to 'andle if you continue working 'ere."

Did someone really have it in their master plans that the French chef kissed him was trying to fire him at the same time? "Well that's too bad." Arthur responded, pulling away but finding himself backed against the steel barrier. "Because I really need to payoff my debt."

"Then allow me to start convincing you to leave." Francis whispered, kissing him again.

Perhaps if Arthur had been paying more attention he would've noticed Matthew getting to know Gilbert, Alfred taking in a low voice to Ludwig and the quiet amber eyes of Yao watching everything from the corner, something close to longing in his gaze.

Until then, he would focus on the fact that Francis was kissing him, warm arms wrapping around him, pulling him flush against him just as they had the first time they had met and how they somehow seem to fit together.

Arthur would later write in his memoirs, "_It was by far one of my more memorable moments because I couldn't figure out for the life my me why I wasn't fighting back. It was also the moment that I realized that Francis Bonnefoy was going to be in my life for a very long time, whether I wanted him there _

"_And somehow, that realization didn't bother me at all_."

_

* * *

_**Author's Note**

As far as I know, Gilbert's rant is basically this: Fucking car! Dammit. Shut the hell up Arthur and you too Matthias! Fucking Dane and Brit idiots! Piss off- FUCK!

The song that they were playing is "My Friend John" by The Fratellis.

I never write a speedy romance between these two but I like to think that they were both a little drunk that night (Francis on wine; Arthur on performance) and merely acting on impulse… we'll see, won't we~?

The thing with this 'verse is that the other stories will branch off from this one, winding their way through the different families/groups I've managed to squeeze in here. It's mostly a side project to my other stories but I want something I can work on whenever if I get stuck with another story.


End file.
